Divinity

BY JOAN CONNOR

In the village, there are two candy stores—the one on Main Street with the spinning red stools, and soda jerks working the fountain, and the rustling newsstand, and the shelves of souvenirs everyone forgets—and the other one, the forbidden shop down the steep leg of the road with no name sliding toward the abandoned woolen mill on River Street.

The merchandise in the other one collects dust beneath the curved glass of the wooden counters. Father tells us the candy there is museum quality—mallow cones and wax lips, marzipan and peppermint straws, Turkish taffy and cream filberts and licorice pipes, and spearmint leaves, coconut watermelon slices, and bacon strips.

The sign above the storefront is chipped gilt on blistered wood, illegible. The window is as black as an empty mirror. And it occurs to us that perhaps, after all, this is where fireballs go to die. Nonetheless, this is where we head. Banana Bikes, Squirrel Nut Zippers, Goo Goo Clusters. Down the acute spur of No-Name Road.

The door opens with a bell that does not jingle. It echoes in the close room that swirls with fog, or smoke, or ghosts, or all three. Burnt sugar scorches the air sifting with confectioners’ sugar. And then he, the Confectioner, wedges through the cloying particulate air. He stands behind the counter and wordlessly asks, “Yes?”

We cannot make out his face through the sweet haze of desire, but then it begins. The peach stones hail. The sweetmeats rain. The Tootsies Roll. The circus peanuts softly pelt the floor.

Divinity: egg whites and sugar. Pecans and vanilla.

We eat sugar and dust, and dust and sugar.

Oh, Baby Ruth.

Oh, Henry. n